


Testing the waters

by BlushLouise



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Don't Like Don't Read, Kink Fic, M/M, Piss kink, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Urination, Voyeurism, Wastefluid, Watersports, Wetting, alien version, slight stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushLouise/pseuds/BlushLouise
Summary: Red Alert discovers a new kink. It hits him with a vengeance, driving him completely to distraction, making it hard for him to focus.Especially when he finds out that there is a mech roaming the base who shares the same desires, and seems to be willing to take things even further.This is a watersports fic - all kink with a sideorder of plot.





	Testing the waters

**Author's Note:**

> Since it's Kinktober, I'm going to be brave and put my name on this. Please be nice.

The communal wash racks of the base were all set up in the same way. They had a uniformity that Red Alert appreciated. He didn't have to consider different dead zones for them, their access points were all identical, the vent structures similar.

It made it very easy to decide where to put up the cameras.

Of course, he couldn't put cameras in the wash racks themselves. Mainly because the solvent and steam would leave them inoperable within a fairly short time, but also because, as Ratchet and Optimus were fond of pointing out, there was such a thing as privacy. And mechs were entitled to that in the wash racks.

So all the official cameras were pointed at the hallway, or the wash rack door, or set up inside the vents. Enough to make sure that the only mechs coming and going were the mechs who were allowed to.

It wasn't quite enough for Red Alert.

Of course, he had quite a different reason for desiring surveillance in there in the first place.

He very rarely entered the racks himself. His own quarters had an ensuite, one of the perks of being an officer, so he mostly used that. Mechs would ask if he suddeny started using the communal ones instead.

He got away with it every now and then. Blamed faulty plumbing. Or that he'd just controlled the vents or the basement levels or somewhere and didn't want to drag the dust and muck all over the base. The excuses were usually accepted.

And when he did use the communal ones, he always used the one particular stall. The first one. The one most mechs didn't want, since it was visible from the door. The one just a wall away from the other half of the room, the smallish area lined with cubicles - two on each wall, four in total.

He'd tried rigging a hidden camera over that stall, hoping that if he put it close enough to the dividing half-wall it would be far enough away from the steam that it would survive. And that aiming it away from the steam would help.

After all, it wasn't the wash racks he was interested in.

It was the wastefluid disposal cubicles.

He could still remember the time he first realized that. It was a treasured memory, still brought out in the middle of the dark cycle if he had a private moment. Which was often.

He'd been almost alone then, hitting the racks late and lingering after most of the others had left.

The mech turning off the solvent in another stall and walking past his back to the cubicles had barely registered on his sensors.

Not so when he entered the cubicle just behind the wall next to Red Alert.

At first, he hadn't taken any notice of it. But as he pulled the shower head down to better clean inside his pedes, he heard it.

The flow. Hitting the basin sides. Strong, loud, intense.

The mech inside sighed, a low, content sound that was half moan.

And suddenly, Red Alert was heating up. Lubricant building up in his valve. His spike hitting the cover with an almost audible thunk.

And then the smell had hit him. Oh, Primus, the smell. It was just enough to be tantalizing, a bare whiff of sour in the air, but Red Alert had to manually stop his cooling fans from activating.

It seemed to go on for ever. Every droplet of fluid hitting the basin driving his frame to new levels.

His trembling fingers long since buried inside the sensitive seams on his hips. His back leaning against the wall next to the stall, sensitive audials dialed to maximum input, array panels kept closed by sheer willpower alone.

He could hear every sigh, every drop, even the faint hiss of fluid flowing from the mech's wastefluid tank.

It had been glorious.

When the flow finally slowed and stopped, Red Alert had to suppress a groan. His array was aching.  
It had taken all he had to turn his back to the room, scrubbing apparently industriously but somewhat ineffectively at a pede, as the mech walked past behind him.

He still dithered back and forth on whether he regretted not looking up to see who it was or not.

No sooner had the mech left than Red Alert was out of the solvent and into the cubicle, closing the door behind him.

He'd stood, legs spread over the basin, leaning forward and bracing himself with one hand on the wall. And then he'd opened both panels.

His spike had pressurized instantly, almost to the point of pain, biolights flickering. He'd palmed it erratically, desperately, and then moved his fingers down to rub his node.

It had taken him less than a minute, and it had been one of the most intense overloads of his existence.

After that, he'd experimented. Both with the surveillance equipment and with himself.

The equipment was easy. The wash racks ate security cameras, no matter where he placed them, so in the end he'd gone with audio transmitters, cleverly hidden in each cubicle. The sound files went straight to Red Alert's extra-private message inbox, never taking the detour into the main grid.

Easy.

His own experimentation was more interesting.

There had been more trips to the communal racks, hoping for experiences like that first one. He'd self-serviced endlessly to the audio files he managed to collect. He'd played with himself while using the waste cubicle, hot wastefluid running across his digits as he fingered himself, or thrust against his own hand, wastefluid working as lubrication.

It was so hot, ramped his charge up so high, overload after overload after overload. And still, he found himself wanting more.

He started going through the audio files with more focus, looking for something that stood out. He started listening live, sitting at his station in security hub at night, one hand buried in his array more often than not. He set up a camera in the waste basin itself - the thing had lasted for all of one use before dying, but that use had been _spectacular_.

It wasn't enough. And he found himself growing desperate.

 

He was on duty the first time he heard it. It was in the middle of the night, and the live feed had been running as a subroutine in his processor. It had been quiet for a while, uneventful, both in the live feed and on his cameras.

But then he heard pedesteps. Someone opening the cubicle door.

He ramped up the volume as high as it could go.

There was the click of opening panels. And then...

"Oooooh yeah," the mystery mech whispered, moaned almost. The first drops hit the basin, an erratic pattern that had Red Alert forgetting about his monitors instantly.

"Ooh frag, yes," the voice continued, and Red Alert pushed away from his console, turning the chair around. His panel was open before he'd finished moving.

"Mmm, so good," the mech moaned, and now Red was touching his own spike eagerly.

He knew that sound. He recognized it from his own experimentation.

Whoever was in the cubicle was self-servicing while they were letting go. The uneven pattering of wastefluid came from running his fingers through it repeatedly.

The thought was enough to make him overload, his spike shooting transfluid all the way up to his shoulder.

"Frag yes," the mech panted, his flow still splattering noisily into the basin. “ohfragohyesyesyes, yesfragyescomeon-"

Red jammed is fingers into his valve, keening and arching into his own touch. The mystery mech groaned, long and low, and a different spatter echoed as transfluid hit the back wall of the cubicle.  
"Oh, yeah," the mech whispered. "Primus, that was it."

Red could only agree fervently.

The sound of the mech flushing had him spinning back to his console, fingers deep knuckle-deep in his own wet heat. Quickly, he hunted through the feeds until he found the one outside that wash rack.

He had to know who this was.

The camera was perfectly placed to pick up the mech as he left, and Red was treated to a flash of shiny maroon and blue plating, a pair of doorwings flickering relaxedly.

Smokescreen.

 

He kept tabs on Smokescreen after that. Learned his duty roster, who he patrolled with. What he liked doing in his off-duty hours.

It wasn't stalking, Red Alert reasoned. He didn't follow the mech around. He didn't even watch him.

Well, not much.

He was mainly keeping tabs on when the mech went to the wash racks. Specifically, when he went to the wash racks alone.

There was a pattern to it. Smokescreen would come back from the late patrol, shower in a mass of social mechs.

Then he'd detour to the rec room, filling up on energon. After that...

After that, Red Alert would tune in to the surveillance from Smokescreen's chosen cubicle, and sequester himself in his office or quarters.

The overloads were _amazing_.

At first, he'd just self-serviced. Granted, it was desperately, often both spike and valve, and increasingly loud. After a while, he started murmuring Smokescreen's name.

That wasn't enough in the long run. He relocated to his own private wash rack and cubicle, Smokescreen's hot pants and moaning in his audials and his own waste fluid flowing over his fingers. "Smokescreen," he would groan, letting hot fluid flow down his legs and pretending it was the other mech's. Pretending it was Smokescreen's hand on his spike or his fingers in Red Alert's valve. They often overloaded simultaneously, though of course Smokescreen didn't know it.

And still he wanted more.

He wanted the real thing. All of it.

He wanted Smokescreen to moan his name, to run his hand across Red Alert's array. He wanted him to push against the plating over Red Alert's waste fluid tank and wink, pushing harder until Red Alert couldn't hold it anymore and expelled all over Smokescreen's waiting fingers. He wanted to kneel in front of the other mech and take everything he had to offer. Wanted Smokescreen to flip him over to pound into Red Alert from behind, while Red voided over Smokescreen's eager spike.

He wanted so badly it hurt.

 

It took him forever to decide. And then it took him even longer to decide how to do it. In the end, he did it in a very Red Alert way.

Smokescreen always favored the same cubicle, and always on the same time of night. This time, Red Alert waited outside, out of sight but still near enough that he could make sure the plan went smoothly. He'd also rigged a camera over the stall. It wouldn't live long, but he only needed tonight.  
Hopefully tonight would be enough.

The live feed was running on his HUD.

He saw Smokescreen enter the cubicle, lock the door behind him. Saw him step closer to the bowl.  
Then he noticed the little holocube, hanging just at eye height, and trimmed in Smokescreen's colors.

"Well, hello," he purred, lifting the tiny thing between two fingers. "Who put you here?”

The cube reacted to Smokescreen's voice and activated, projecting a high resolution video clip.

Red Alert couldn't see the clip on the video feed. It didn't matter - he knew it intimately. It had taken him several tries to get it right.

Smokescreen was watching a pale valve, dotted with rows of tiny red biolights and glistening with lubricants. The contrast to the dark fingers pumping leisurely in and out of the valve was very pleasing to the optic, if Red Alert may say so himself.

He could tell by Smokescreen's doorwings and the rapt attention he gave the video that the mech was interested. Of course, the released spike he was palming lazily was a dead giveaway as well. And just from Smokescreen's reactions, Red Alert could tell the exact moment in the video when the waste fluid started flowing over the dark fingers. He could see Smokescreen's wings practically vibrating, one hand working his spike in sync with the dark fingers, in a way that was infinitely familiar to Red Alert.

This time, it was Smokescreen finishing along with him. Not the other way around.

As the Praxian's transfluid spattered across the back wall of the cubicle, the video ended. In it's place appeared the word 'Interested?' and a series of numbers.

Red Alert was still a bit wary about handing someone else the code to his door, even if the code was temporary and would only work once. But it was a gamble he'd decided to take.

"Interested?" Smokescreen still sounded breathless. "Oh, I'm definitely interested. I'm going to find you, my gorgeous creature." He put the holocube in his subspace.

Red Alert grinned as he began walking away. He had some surveillance to prepare.

 

Red Alert kept a close eye on Smokescreen in the days following the holocube presentation. The Praxian was clearly hunting for him.

It was apparent in the way his optics followed other mainly white mechs. Drifted to their hands. He seemed to dismiss the gestalts out of hand, even though some of the Protectobots and no few of the Aerialbots fit the color scheme. Red Alert thought that was reassuring, actually. They were all so young. Besides, their hands weren't an exact match, which proved that Smokescreen had keen observational skills.

Red Alert could appreciate that in a mech.

For a while, Smokescreen hit on Mirage. The noble was aloof, and he seemed confused at the attention, but he was in no way immune to the Praxian's charm. It culminated in Smokescreen taking the spy back to his quarters one evening, only to be back in the rec room the very next day, eyeing the crowd.

Mirage's valve must be the wrong color.

After Mirage, it was Wheeljack. Red Alert enjoyed watching that - the engineer was flustered but eager, and the innuendos reached really epic levels. It didn't take them too long to get to the point, either, and though the heated interfacing session in the lab's wash rack wasn't exactly what Red Alert wanted from Smokescreen, he still enjoyed watching it. That camera would be replaced when it broke.

Not that it was the only one that caught them going at it. Either Smokescreen was an exhibitionist, or Wheeljack was. Or maybe both. Red Alert amassed a decently sized file containing footage of the pair of them.

But the joy of watching faded fast. Because Smokescreen kept going back to Wheeljack. No matter that Wheeljack's valve was clearly as dark as his pelvis, though his spike was pale. Red Alert had seen enough of both of them by now to know their arrays intimately.

Wheeljack's valve was the wrong one. And still Smokescreen kept going back to him.

The rate of nightly visits to the waste disposal cubicle dropped as well.

Red Alert didn't like it. But he was forced to realize that maybe Smokescreen had found something he liked enough to abandon his hunt for that pale valve. That even though Wheeljack didn't share that particular kink, Smokescreen liked what he got from the engineer enough to keep coming back.

It was disappointing. But Red Alert had no prior claim to the Praxian. So he admitted defeat - reluctantly, and in the privacy of his own mind, but he did. He toned back his surveillance on Smokescreen to a more normal level, accepted Inferno's invitation to the big mech's berth the same night, and tried to forget about it.

 

It could have ended there. It would have ended there, if Red Alert hadn't caught Ravage in the vents along with Rumble and Frenzy. The resulting confrontation between the cassettes and the security detail destroyed most of the conference room as well as the main operations room and the Prime's office. Optimus was forced into Prowl's office, as it was the largest (and because Ratchet refused to let him take his work back to his quarters), and Prowl took a desk in the main tactical hub. That meant Red Alert had to walk all the way down there to hand over his incident report in person.

"Prowl, sir," he said crisply, waiting for the black-and-white to turn. "My report."

"Thank you, Red Alert. Did you find their point of entry?"

Red Alert nodded. "Yes sir. I've dispatched Brawn and Windcharger to seal the crack."

Prowl nodded back. "Good job. Dismissed."

That could have been the end of it. But when Red Alert started to turn, he found Smokescreen looking at him.

 _Staring_ at him.

Optics roving across his white plating. Darting to his dark hands. Dancing across his red pelvis.

When the Praxian finally met his gaze, Red Alert had to mentally brace himself against the sheer hunger in that look.

Perhaps Wheeljack wasn't so satisfying after all.

Red Alert permitted himself a small, smug smile as he walked back to his quarters. Something told him he should be prepared for a visitor.

 

He'd polished. He'd refueled. He'd hoped, rather desperately, that the Praxian would come on his first night off.

He wasn't disappointed.

Just after shift change, someone entered the code to his door. When it opened, Smokescreen walked inside, wearing a confident grin. "So I guess you've been waiting for me."

Red Alert eyed the cocky stance and sure look. He smirked. "I have. Come in."

He waited until the door had slid shut behind Smokescreen before moving further into the room. "I must admit, I was beginning to believe you weren't interested."

Smokescreen stepped right into Red Alert's personal space. His hands rested on Red's lower arms. “Not interested? Mech, you've messed with my mind. I can't focus."

Red Alert pursed his lips. He couldn’t resist the chance to test the other mech a little. "You seem to be focusing well enough on Wheeljack."

Smokescreen chuckled. "I don't know whether to freak out or be flattered that you've been watching me. Wheeĺjack is fun, open to almost anything. He's entertaining." Smokescreen leaned in and purred into Red Alert's audial. "But I've been fantasizing about a certain white valve."

Red Alert shivered.

"I want to lick those teasing red biolights," Smokescreen continued in that sultry tone. He walked them backwards until Red Alert's back hit the wall. "I want to bury my glossa in that valve, to suck on the folds until you squeal. And then I want what you offered. I want it to wash over my hands, run down my face, pool on my hips as you ride me." A blue hand slid down to press against his stomach plating. "Are you interested?"

Red Alert moaned at the pressure on his fairly full waste tank. "Wash rack. Now."

Smokescreen grinned, his mouth moving to Red Alert's throat. "Private wash rack?"

"I'm an officer." Red Alert gasped at the tiny nips. "It has its perks. To your left."

Smokescreen turned them, his frame directing Red Alert's movement. He was still kissing and licking Red Alert's throat, and Red Alert trembled, both from the attention and from the realization of what he was finally going to do.

There was a bench in the wash rack. Red Alert had put it there with a specific purpose in mind. Smokescreen seemed to guess what that purpose was, as he steered them both towards it. When the back of Red's knees hit the bench he was eased down onto the seat.

Smokescreen knelt between his legs. Fingers trailed slow, sensuous lines of fire down Red Alert's frame, culminating in teasing touches along his array panel. "Open this," the Praxian crooned. "Show me."

Red Alert couldn't resist that voice. His panel slid aside with an eager click.

Smokescreen sat back on his heels. "So pretty," he whispered. "Primus, I've been dreaming about you." Blue optics darted to Red's own. "Any boundaries?"

"No pain," Red Alert replied. He spread his legs a bit more. "Aside from that, whatever you want. I've been dreaming about this for much longer than you have."

Smokescreen stared at him for a moment, then treated him to a wicked smile. "Best make this good, then."

He leaned forward, eager glossa licking a broad stripe from the base of Red's array to the top. Red gasped and keened, pressing against the touch he'd been fantasizing about, rotating his hips to move that glossa to where he wanted it.

Smokescreen would have none of it though. He placed his hands on Red's hips to keep him still and sucked eagerly on his node. When he let go, Red Alert was trembling so badly he had trouble staying upright.

"Can you control the flow?" Smokescreen asked, looking up at him with a seriousness to him that Red hadn't expected.

He just nodded. He'd practiced doing that.

"Then let go," Smokescreen whispered. "Slowly."

Oh, Primus. Red Alert leaned back against the wall, optics locked on Smokescreen's face, and did as the other mech asked.

The flow was small at first, just drops escaping, but Smokescreen groaned and pressed his fingers against his opening eagerly. Red Alert looked down, saw his own wastefluid trickling over Smokescreen's fingers.

He nearly overloaded from the sight alone.

"So warm," Smokescreen said, rubbing his fingers across Red's valve, trying to wipe up every single drop. "Give me more, Red, can you do that?"

Red Alert nodded, increasing the flow, and Smokescreen moaned as the fluid spattered across his palm. He pulled one hand up to his mouth, suckled on his own finger eagerly, and Red Alert moaned.

He'd never considered that happening.

Smokescreen gave an appreciative moan as he sucked his own fingers clean. Then he leaned in, and pressed his open mouth directly over Red Alert's wastefluid opening, probing it eagerly with his glossa.

That was all it took for Red Alert to overload. He threw his head back, only just managing to not crack it against the tiled wall, optics brightening into blazing white and voice rising to a loud keen.

All through it, Smokescreen kept licking him, cleaning him of every drop of wastefluid.

"Slag, Red, you're so gorgeous," he murmured. "So damn hot it should be illegal." His hands rubbed over Red's stomach plating, caressing the tank beneath. "Can you stop?"

Red nodded unsteadily. It took a few tries, but he got the flow cut off.

"So good," Smokescreen praised. "So gorgeous, so eager, so obedient." He pulled himself up until he stood straight, and pulled Red Alert to his pedes as well.

The kiss was unexpected. So was the faint taste of his own wastefluid. But Red melted against Smokescreen all the same.

"Want to try something else," Smokescreen murmured against his lips. "Ride me?"

"Please," Red whispered. He followed eagerly as Smokescreen spun them, sitting down on the bench with his doorwings fanning out behind him. Smokescreen's array panel clicked aside, giving Red a perfect view of the spike he already knew so well. It was instantly hard and weeping for him.

"Come here," Smokescreen growled, taking Red's hips in hand and pulling him forward and down. Red Alert straddled Smokescreen's legs, put his arms around the other mech's shoulders, and rose eagerly.

Sinking down on that spike was pure heaven.

"More," Smokescreen panted. "More, Red, Primus, I need -"

"I know what you need," Red purred, delightfully in control in this position. He restarted the flow, taking care to keep it as slow as before. The fluid ran down both his own legs and Smokescreen's, pooling on the bench beneath the Praxian's aft.

Whenever Red rose up, the fluid trickled down the intricate whorls of Smokescreen's spike.

Smokescreen swore, holding on tightly to Red's hips as he thrust upwards into the fluid-covered valve. Whenever he pulled out, there was an obscene-sounding splat against the wet bench.

"So fragging hot," he moaned. "Red, please!"

Red Alert let the fluid flow faster, streaming out of him and spattering over Smokescreen's abdominal plating. It felt so good to let go like that, his valve filled with an eager spike, and when Smokescreen moved his hand away from his hip to rub his node, taking care to let his fingers get as saturated in Red's steaming fluid as possible, Red arched his back into the touch and moaned.

"All of it," Smokescreen groaned, thrusting up eagerly. "Give me - give me all of it, Red."

The last fluid in Red's tank was let loose, and the pressure of it near pushed Smokescreen's hand away. The Praxian bucked up, burying himself in Red's valve until they were pelvis to pelvis, and still the fluid was flowing.

Smokescreen thrust up again, once, twice, and ground against Red Alert. Red could feel when the Praxian's overload hit, the way liquid heat coated his internal walls. The sensation triggered Red's own overload, and for the second time that night he saw stars.

The flow eased to a trickle, then stopped altogether, and Red collapsed against Smokescreen's shoulder, panting heavily.

"That was so slagging hot," Smokescreen breathed, "You are amazing, Red."

"I could say the same for you." Red chuckled tremulously. He pushed himself upright, arching his back. "Slag, that was good." A glance down revealed the complete mess they were sitting in - a mix of transfluid and lubricant leaking from his valve, and both of them covered in the sheen of wastefluid. He looked at Smokescreen, winking when the Praxian met his optics. "So was it worth the wait?"

In response, Smokescreen tugged his head down towards his own and kissed him again. This time there was more care, more patience, and Red Alert sighed in appreciation.

"I have a surprise for you," Smokescreen said against his mouth. "If you want."

"That depends." Red smirked. "Will I enjoy it?"

"I hope so," Smokescreen chuckled. He didn't let go, making sure to keep Red's mouth close to his own. "You see… I have a mod I'd like to share with you."

"Oh yeah? What kind of mod?"

Smokescreen smiled, and the expression was positively sultry. "I have dual wastefluid channels. Which means…" He pushed his hips lazily up against Red's again. "...that I can choose whether to void from my valve or my spike."

Red Alert could feel himself heating up at the implications. Smokescreen was still buried in his valve. "Did you want..?"

Smokescreen nodded. "If you let me."

If he let him?

It only took a fraction of a moment for Red to decide. "Oh, yes," he breathed. "I want it. I want it so bad."

"Good." Smokescreen grinned. "Then here it comes."

At first there was no difference. Then Smokescreen's spike twitched inside Red Alert's valve, and in the next moment, there was glorious heated pressure filing him up.

The fluid pressed against the sides of his valve, forcing the walls to stretch. It pushed up against his gestational chamber, drowning the sensitive lock in liquid, high-pressured heat. Red Alert groaned as the fluid started leaking out his valve, flowing across Smokescreen's hips and adding to the mess beneath them. He rocked on Smokescreen's spike, enjoying the noises the Praxian was making as well as the feel of his wastefluid being forced out.

It felt divine.

Smokescreen gasped and pushed him back, supporting his weight until he was flat on his back on the wash rack floor. He pulled out of Red's valve slowly. The wastefluid still flowing from the spike's tip was aimed at Red's node, his spike housing, across his hips and stomach.

Another touch to his node shot Red straight into his third overload. He clung to consciousness with a will, wanting so desperately to not miss a single moment of the Praxian's attention.

When Smokescreen's flow finally tapered off, Red Alert was soaked.

Smokescreen leaned down over him, lips tracing Red's jaw, down his throat and across his chest. "You are a Primus-given treasure," the Praxian murmured. "I'm not ever letting you go."

Red Alert grinned. He liked the sound of that.

Using some of the last strength he had left in his frame, he got up, pulling Smokescreen to his pedes as well. "Come on. Let's clean this up. I can hear a pair of energon cubes calling our names, and then the berth." He turned slightly away from Smokescreen to turn the solvent on, and threw the mech a glance over his shoulder. "If you want to stay, that is."

"If I want to stay?" Smokescreen repeated. "I don't know if there's anything you can do at this point that could make me leave."

Red Alert laughed. "In that case, we need more energon." He spun under the flowing solvent, catching Smokescreen as he stepped into Red's personal space and intertwining his fingers behind the Praxian's neck. "Got to fill up for tomorrow. So we can do this again."

Smokescreen chuckled and nuzzled Red's cheek. "Sounds good to me."

Red pulled him closer into a proper hug. He glanced up towards the corner of the wash rack, where an innocent-looking little piece of piping concealed an expertly placed camera recording on a closed loop.

He would probably have to replace that one as well. Probably quite a lot of times, if Smokescreen's whispered promises were anything to go by.

It was worth it.


End file.
